


Across the universe, you are Cherished

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Gen, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, alien!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-01-12 13:49:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1187586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’ve you got there?” he looks pointedly at the small fist. The boy glances at it, as if he hadn’t noticed it for a while, perhaps he hadn’t. As he brings it up to chest height he fixes his eyes on Mycroft once more, not having blinked even once. His palm opens and he stretches it out for Mycroft to see, but not so close that he couldn’t whip it away before Mycroft even tried to reach for it. He looks at the muddy outstretched palm (fingers covered in cracked mud, he’s been digging), and caged between small fingers he sees a metallic glinting stone, uneven edges and a few dents. He looks at the way the light catches on it and sees the ridges carved into the stone. It’s not a language he recognises, even with his encompassing knowledge.<br/>“What does it say?” is the next question. The boy, still not blinking, cocks his head at him.<br/>“Shrrrrl’ck” The r trills in his throat and ends in a clicking noise behind his teeth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I found my way home from those lonely stars

**Author's Note:**

> This is gonna be a multi chapter fic.  
> Basically I wanted to try and re-write BBC Sherlock as if Sherlock was an alien, so he would be slightly different in mannerism, his history and experiences would be different, and so on.  
> Here's a prologue, how Sherlock came to earth, was found and eventually became a part of the Holmes family, as well as how his relationship with Mycroft developed.  
> This will take a while to write and I'm not gonna guarantee a set schedule, but I'll try not to let it lie for too long.  
> Unbeta'ed

Mycroft sighed the biggest and most long-suffering sigh his 10-year-old body could muster. Just why his nanny had decided that the playground was an excellent place to bring Mycroft for their first outing in her employment was a mystery to even him. Beginners’ error he concluded. Wandering at the edge of the park, closer to the cluster of trees encircling the eastern side, he surveyed the playground with the air of someone who saw himself far above the kids and even grown ups milling about within the enclosed area. He made idle little observations here and there as he strolled along. 

Keeps looking to her daughter, daughters automatic placement of arm says recently healed break. Clean one, from falling off of one of the inane contraptions built for the children. Still worried.  
New knot tied over old creases of the tie, wife usually ties it he’s had to tie it himself for the first time in a long while, no ring, back stiff, sofa? No hospital visitors’ room. She’s died, not divorced him. Son is sitting on swing, nose and the particular joint in the wrist affirms the genetic inheritance.  
Recently fired, turned to drink. Hasn’t told the wife yet, keeps twisting his hands and sideways glancing at her, alcohol stains on the shoes confirm it. Briefcase-

A rustling noise halts his thoughts suddenly. He stops and looks to the source of the interruption, but apparently they’ve either gone or decided to stay hidden. There was too much disturbance among the leaves to be an animal, so person, a child judging by the size of the hiding place.  
“I know you’re in there, better to just come out now.” Mycroft says with all the authority he has inherited from his Father, which is enough to make even his teachers obey. Who emerges from the bush has the unusual ability to surprise him. A young boy no older than 4 by the looks of it, exits the hiding place. He’s thin and looks frail, and beneath the grime and dirt there is pale skin. He looks to be made of china, his lips not even showing any sign of the pinkish tinge that stains healthy kids. Alert steely grey eyes assesses him from beneath a tangle of black hair, no doubt curly but too knotted to tell for sure. Mycroft scans the boy and notes that it almost looks like he lacks any colour at all, like he has sprung from a clack and white photography. He discards the nonsensical thought at once. A dirty oversized t-shirt hangs from the boys bony shoulders, and a pair of shorts that are far too large have been tied securely around his waist by a shoelace, yet the boy lacks any footwear whatsoever.  
Homeless, can’t be only four if this is his situation. Looks younger must be closer to the age of six. Too pale to be healthy, malnourished. Clutching something hard in his right hand. Can’t tell what.  
His curiosity won out.  
“What’ve you got there?” he looks pointedly at the small fist. The boy glances at it, as if he hadn’t noticed it for a while, perhaps he hadn’t. As he brings it up to chest height he fixes his eyes on Mycroft once more, not having blinked even once. His palm opens and he stretches it out for Mycroft to see, but not so close that he couldn’t whip it away before Mycroft even tried to reach for it. He looks at the muddy outstretched palm (fingers covered in cracked mud, he’s been digging), and caged between small fingers he sees a metallic glinting stone, uneven edges and a few dents. He looks at the way the light catches on it and sees the ridges carved into the stone. It’s not a language he recognises, even with his encompassing knowledge.  
“What does it say?” is the next question. The boy, still not blinking, cocks his head at him.  
“Shrrrrl’ck” The r trills in his throat and ends in a clicking noise behind his teeth. It sounds like he might be singing. Mycroft cannot recognise the language, his mind running trough the possibilities but not finding a match.  
So he understands English, but doesn’t speak it. Foreigner perhaps? His looks could be European, east maybe. Skin colour suggests further north.  
“Interesting.” He mutters, and the boys fingers twitch.  
“Intrr’sting.” The boy sings back to him, before clearing his throat lightly. Something seems to shift inside him, as though his vocal chords re-adjust themselves.  
“Interesting.” The boy says again, perfectly pronounced as Mycroft self had said it. The singing lilt to his voice is gone. Mycroft cannot help but stare befuddled at the boy, but he is intrigued. The boy closes his fist once more and it falls back to rest at his side.  
“Who are you?” escapes him without his consent, and in the future he will deny it, but it is true. The boy stares, yet to blink and that should start to worry him.  
“Word… is… S-Sherlock.” He said, and it sounded like borrowed words, like he had recorded these words and was now playing them back. They had slightly different pitch and pronunciation, except his word (didn’t know the word ‘name’?), the name on the stone that still had the slightly melodic sound to it. It must be his name if that was what he chose to recognise as his identification. Sherlock seemed to smile slightly, as if he was proud of himself to have produced a sentence of his own, unaware of the slight mistake Mycroft noted.  
“Sherlock. Where do you live?”  
“Don’t know.” The words were coming easier now, still a bit odd sounding, like they did not belong on his tongue. Mycroft thought this was suspicious. He seemed attentive enough to understand and repeat language, he would know where he lived, if even not how to say so in understandable terms.  
“Yes you do.” He said calmly. Eyeing the boy who in turn didn’t even give a change of expression, however he did blink once as if having picked up it was the normal thing to do.  
“You wouldn’t believe.” His words were smoothing out now, taking on Sherlocks own voice, yet he seemed to bypass pronouns to refer to himself. Remarkable.  
Someone’s asked him before, they didn’t believe him when he said, what could be so unbelievable?  
“How do you know that I won’t?” Mycroft challenges him, and Sherlock seems to consider this. He looks to the side of Mycrofts head for a second, blinking for the third time since he exited the bush, before looking back at Mycroft again.  
“There.” He simply stated as his arm shoots up to point at a seemingly random point in the sky. Then he looks up, changes the direction slightly before looking back expectantly. Mycrofts response is to simply raise an eyebrow at this impossible boy. A thought strikes him.  
“And where are your parents, or general family?”  
Sherlock looks up at the point in the sky, following the line of his arm. Then he lowers it again, instead bringing the metal stone back up into his line of vision.  
“Am alone.”  
Internally Mycroft sighs. Of course it was the interesting homeless child that found him. Of course it was this remarkable boy who imitates speech, displaying signs of incredible intelligence.  
Out loud he simply says,  
“You’re in need of a bath, and some proper clothes. Come on.” He holds out a hand, and Sherlock stares at it, blinks once, and takes it with the less muddy hand not holding onto the stone. Nametag, reminder, what?  
Sherlock never mentions this day to Mycroft, never thanks him, and never explains anything more than what this brief exchange tells him, but it’s all right. From that day on Mycroft has a little brother. Sherlock turns out to be the only person, lack of humanity notwithstanding, Mycroft ever holds dear.

***  
Even at 10 Mycroft has his ways, he’s resourceful and this skill will follow him throughout life. The ability to spot a valuable contact when it pops up, keep it in his mind, bide his time until it eventually has a good use.  
The first thing he does is bring Sherlock home with him, tells him to follow him and his nanny and wait outside until he comes and gets him. He tells him to be stealthy, and Sherlock nods. The whole walk home Mycroft knows Sherlock is there, can almost feel the unblinking grey eyes trained on his back. He suspects his nanny can as well by the way she keeps turning, but every time Sherlock is always out of sight. Mycroft has to admit he’s impressed.  
The nanny deposits him in his room and goes out back for a smoke, and this is when Mycroft sneaks back out. He stands at the bottom of the small stairs leading up to the door looking across the driveway. His eyes scan the bushes and the road for the small boy, and then he sees him peeking inside by the gate. He waves at him to come in, and Sherlock complies, carefully making his way over the gravel driveway. Mycroft ushers him inside, and then up to the second floor where he leads Sherlock to the bathroom closest to his own bedroom. He helps Sherlock pull the too large t-shirt over his head and does not cringe at the visibility of his ribs and spine. Sherlock climbs over the edge of the bath, and sits with his still shorts clad legs crossed. He gets a cloth and turns the showerhead on, lathers the cloth in soap and starts scrubbing away the dirt. Sherlock sits passively, obeying simple instructions such as lift your arms and unfold your legs. After a good rinse of water Mycroft finds the shampoo and starts working on the tangle of black curls.  
At first he thinks there’s something stuck in Sherlocks hair, wouldn’t surprise him, but when he brushes against it a second time more deliberately Sherlock lets out what can only be called a giggle in what Mycroft has come to dub his native tongue. The song like hitching fades as quick as it arose. Mycroft removes is hands and looks at Sherlock expectantly.  
“What’s that on your head then?” and instead of an answer Sherlock decides to show him. Two thin antennae uncurl from their hiding position in Sherlocks thick hair, straightening out into their full length. They’re as pale as the rest of Sherlocks skin, no thicker than one of his frail fingers, with small pod like tips.  
Aids hearing most likely, any other abilities or purposes? Small cluster of nerves in the ends, as evident from the thicker structure. Telekinetic abilities? Physical or simply mentally? Mind reading perhaps-  
“Both.”  
“I’m sorry, what was that?” He’d been too caught up in analysing, he still had a bit to go before he could do it effortlessly while still appearing present.  
“For reading minds and moving things.” Sherlock answered simply. Mycroft hums his understanding before returning to his task of taming the nest atop Sherlocks head, now mindful of the antennae. It takes a bit of work but eventually the water running from the showerhead, over Sherlock, and into the drain turns clear. Mycroft leaves him to get out of the bath and towel himself of with the one laid out. Headed towards his bedroom he tries to think if he has any of the clothes he wore when he was younger. Rifling trough the very back of his closet he finds an old school uniform. Pristine shirt with black shorts and a matching black vest. No shoes or socks however. He heads back to the bathroom, pausing outside to knock on the door, alerting Sherlock of his arrival.  
“I’m coming inn.” He calls, before entering the bathroom once more. Sherlock has discarded the pair of shorts he was previously wearing, the overlarge towel hangs over his shoulders and hides his entire body from view like a cloak.  
“I’ve brought you some clothes that should fit you.” He puts them down on the edge of the bath as he says this, and then leaves again.  
After two minutes Sherlock exits the bathroom fully dressed. The shorts fit him perfectly, as well as the vest, but the shirt is a bit big. It’s hardly noticeable however. Sherlock has curled his antennae back into his rapidly drying and re-curling hair.  
Mycrofts head is spinning with ideas and solutions, how to get Sherlock into the Holmes house permanently, he’ll need protection. He doesn’t know why he suddenly feels so protective of him, but he’s alone and Mycroft thinks that he would be safest here.  
He brings Sherlock into his room and has him sit on the bed, grabbing a notebook and a pen he joins him soon after. He sets out to explain his plan to Sherlock.  
“I will contact a few people I know, they’ll get you some important papers, not of the quality needed of course but good enough for the place I have in mind. If all goes well, you can come and live here permanently within two weeks.”  
Sherlock looks at him in wonder.  
“Live here?”  
“Yes, it’s the safest place for someone like you. You never know who will get their hands on you, and what they might do if they figure out just what you are.” He states matter-of-factly. Sherlock frowns slightly in worry.  
“Why?”  
“Because, Sherlock (future: brother dear), people have a tendency to despise what they do not understand, and someone who is from the place you do will scare them immensely.”  
“Not dangerous.”  
“I know you’re not, but they will not care.”  
Sherlock looks scared, curling minutely in on himself. The only tell are his eyes and the small downturn of his lips, otherwise his face is as blank as ever.  
“That’s why I’m going to make sure they don’t find you, you’ll live here safe and sound.” Mycroft smiles slightly, and Sherlock unfolds himself.  
“Good, now. I’ll ask some questions, and you answer what you can.” Sherlock nods.  
“Your name’s Sherlock.” He nods again. “Do you have a surname?” Questioning look. “A second name to identify who your family is?”  
“Tho’lii.”  
“Torley.” Sherlock frowns.  
“I know, but it needs to sound like our language. Now, age?” Sherlock thinks for a bit before holding up seven fingers.  
“Earth years?” Nodding.  
“You’re male, I’d say you’re about 3’7”. No use in asking nationality, we’ll put European that’ll do. Black hair, grey eyes, I’m guessing you don’t know your blood type? No matter.” Mycrofts voice eventually quiets down as he scribbles on the page. Sherlock watches with rapt attention in silence. Mycroft looks up at him after two minutes.  
“Oh, are you hungry?” Sherlock shakes his head, preferring the nonverbal communication to the strange words he has to use to make himself understood.  
“You can’t have eaten properly for at least a couple of weeks by the look of you, are you sure?”  
“Energy from the sun absorbed by cells in hair, like…” He pauses looking for a word. “Earth! Earth plants.” He smiles satisfied.  
“Photosynthesis then, fascinating. Very well, maybe you’d prefer some water then?”  
Sherlock nods, and Mycroft places the notebook on the bed before heading out of the room, leaving Sherlock to look around in blatant curiosity.  
As he climbs the staircase back onto the second floor, glass of water in hand, he hears a thud from his room. Mycroft never rushes anywhere, never runs. There’s no need to when he is always on time and there are always others to deal with situations. He does not rush for this either, but he does find himself at the top of the stairs a bit quicker tan usual (not that he’ll admit to it). Opening the door to his bedroom he sees Sherlock sitting on the floor, hair a bit tousled and a curious expression on his face.  
Fell off the bed, no injuries, he’s not crying either. Doesn’t feel pain like humans?  
He looking at his knee, bending it so it ends up closer to his face. As Mycroft walks closer he sees that there is some kind of liquid gathering on his knee.  
“What happened?” Mycroft asks despite already knowing the answer. Sherlock looks up at him calmly.  
“Fell off.” Mycroft places the glass on the floor beside him as he kneels down next to Sherlock to look at his scraped knee. There are droplets of clear liquid gathering on his skin, but they’re not running like normal blood would have by now, instead they simply seem to be swelling.  
Blood thicker than ours, no colour, would explain the lack of colour in his skin and the missing veins in his eyes.  
Mycroft sighs and gets up, retrieves something at his desk, before returning to his previous crouched position near Sherlock.  
“Pay attention.” He says as he holds a tack up for Sherlock to see. He presses it the tip of his left ring finger, and watches Sherlock as he looks at the swelling droplet of blood. Mycroft shifts the angle of his finger minutely and it runs in a small trail towards his palm. Then he grabs a handkerchief from his pocket to stop the bleeding.  
“See? If you want to stay hidden you can’t let anyone know about your blood.”  
Sherlock is still looking at his finger, now wrapped in the white cloth with a slowly appearing red stain.  
“Can fix it.” Sherlock says simply, and as Mycroft watches Sherlocks knee with the attention Sherlock had given his finger, something truly extraordinary happens. At first it spreads up his neck, a slight pinkish tinge beneath his skin. It reaches his face, lips filling in and darkening slightly, cheeks turning that healthy shade of ‘just been outdoors’ that the young so often have, small veins in his eyes fill with red. It’s crawled its way down his arms as well, blue veins becoming visible on the inside of his forearms. Mycrofts attention returns again to the bent knee, and within the droplets he sees whisks of red appear, like ink mixing with water, until they’re all the same deep red as Mycrofts own blood. And then they start to drip down his leg, very slowly at first but eventually thinning until it looks like an exact replica of what Mycroft had demonstrated.  
Remarkable.  
“That’s one less concern then.” Is all he says, but he can see it in Sherlocks face that he’s heard what he’s thought, and that he’s proud of being able to amaze him like so. Mycroft removes the handkerchief from his finger and follows the trail of the droplet with a clean corner up Sherlocks leg until it’s pressed against the scrapes. Sherlock reaches out and grabs the glass abandoned on the floor, drinks it all in one eager gulp, and sets it back down.  
“Appreciated.” He says, and Mycroft figures it must be his version of ‘thank you’ directly translated.  
Sherlocks stone had followed him clutched in his hand trough the bath and had ended up in the front pocket of the shirt he was now wearing, it lay snug against the left side of his chest, and this bothered him. It wasn’t supposed to be on the side, it was supposed to be in the middle, around his neck, it was supposed to indicate his membership of the family he had been born into, it bore his word. It was supposed to hang against his skin like a safe presence, one to shield him from harm and make sure his family could always find him.  
After Mycroft had gotten some plasters to patch up his knee, Sherlock decided to do something about his troubles.  
“The strap broke, do you have one?” Mycroft turned to look at him from where he was disposing of the empty plaster wrappers.  
“A strap for what?” To answer Sherlock pulled the stone from the pocket, fingers still curling protectively around it. Mycroft saw this and decided not to argue about it, it clearly meant something to him, it was important. Whether it was sentimental or not Mycroft didn’t know, but from the way it was treated he guessed it was at least partially so.  
“I believe I have a suitable substitute around here somewhere.” He said as he went to the desk again. Opening his desk drawer he fished out a long silver chain with a small cross pendant hanging on it. Gift from a nanny, extremely religious and wishing to pass it onto the next generation. Mycroft slipped the cross off and placed it back into the drawer, he walked back to Sherlock and handed it to him.  
“Appreciated.” Sherlock said again, before slipping the chain into a small hole at what Mycroft assumed was the top of the stone. Sherlock the proceeded to try and fasten the clasp behind his neck, but he must have been unused to them for it was apparent he couldn’t quite grasp it at first, eventually however he did manage to do it. Mycroft could tell he did not want help, and so hadn’t offered. Sherlock seemed like a proud creature, accepting of help when it suited him but rather stubborn in some aspects. Wanting to prove himself a bit perhaps.  
Having it rest against his chest once more clamed him slightly, it felt right again.

***

At the end of the day Mycroft has left Sherlock in a small orphanage about an hours drive away from where he lives. He used a “calming walk” as a cover to sneak Sherlock out and away from the house beneath his Mothers (returned from work, Father will be home in two hours) watchful eyes. They take the bus and arrive within 15 minutes to where Mycroft says he’ll get Sherlocks very important papers. He leaves Sherlock to wait outside a dodgy looking building, returning shortly with an A4 envelope. They catch the bus to the next stop, and 20 minutes later find themselves outside of The Street Irregulars Orphanage. Mycroft hands him the papers and tell him his instructions in a calm and steady voice.  
“Tell the woman at the reception these exact words.” Sherlocks eyes are fixed on him.  
“’The highlander sends his regards and will visit in two days’, then you show her your papers and she’ll show you to your room. Keep away from people in general, and stay out of trouble. I’ll be back in two days, and then again in two weeks with my parents, and then you can come home with us if everything works out smoothly.” Sherlock nods, he is not scared to be left here, he can take care of himself if needed be. Mycroft nods at him and sends him in, before leaving himself. Returning home after 30 minutes he heads to his room and starts planning.  
He has overheard his parent talk of a second child for two months now. Discussing back and forth the advantages and disadvantages this may bring. The main concern lies with Mother, who does not wish to go pregnant once again, not hire another nanny to look after the new baby. Now all he has to do is to plant the idea in their heads, and it will all work out perfectly.  
True to his word Mycroft turns up two days later right after school hours, Mrs Langley takes him up to the single bedroom she’s given Sherlock. He’s sitting on the bed, reading an old and worn looking book, he looks up before the door even moves, knows they’re there by the mental imprint he’s built of them, thus being able to recognise their presence.  
“Sherlock dear, Mycroft’s here to see you.” Mrs Langley says as she pokes her head in. Sherlock nods and puts the book down. He’s still more comfortable with being able to nod or shake his head to communicate, but he’s made progress in only two days.  
“Hello Sherlock.” Mycroft says as he steps into the room, he looks back at Mrs Langley and she must see something in his face because she soon excuses herself and shuts the door after her, leaving the two in privacy.  
“I’ve brought something for you.” Mycroft says as he hands a notebook over to Sherlock. He takes it, flips trough it quickly, and glances back up.  
“With the help of these notes you should be able to adapt to human culture quicker, developing appropriate social skills and language. I’ve also included ways of observation that should make things easier.” Sherlock looks like his mind is in a standstill between interested and bored.  
“I’ve already picked up most of the language, but your customs are… different.” It’s said with a hint of disdain in his voice. Mycroft for his part feels almost proud over the rapid progress Sherlock has shown speech wise.  
It’ll have to be the genetic build up of his species, far more clever than humans, impeccable ability to adapt and to learn over a short period of time simply by absorbing the language in different ways.  
“Correct. You’re much more clever than the people here, why?”  
“I am simply more intelligent than the average person, that runs in my family you see. High IQ and a streak of… eccentricness.”  
Sherlock hums in response. For all that Sherlock has progressed he seems to still be a bit clueless, and he trusts Mycroft almost fully it seems. Perhaps he has understood he means him no harm, whatever the reason Mycroft is glad Sherlock has let him so willingly do as he sees fit in his process of trying to get Sherlock into the Holmes household.  
“Well, read and study, Sherlock (future: brother dear), for in a few days we will come for a visit. It’s important you act as if you do not know me. I will see you then.” Mycroft nods to him in departing, and Sherlock nods back.  
“Mycroft.” He says as said boy is half way out the door. Mycroft turns to look at him.  
“This is appreciated.” Sherlock says, his form of thanks having developed into a phrase that makes more sense in English. Mycroft gives the tiniest of smiles and closes the door behind him.  
The next five days he makes sure to enter rooms unnoticed as his parents discuss the prospects of a second child, it only happens twice but it seems to work. The first time they’re discussing the possibility of a surrogate when Mycroft walks in, comments on how quicker it would be to adopt a child and get one that’s old enough not to require diapers at the same time, before leaving again. His parents have gone silent before he reaches the doorway. The second time they’re discussing the possibility of finding a child they’ll actually like, someone clever enough to keep up with the Holmes family, and Mycroft supplies the statistics of bright minds being successful and having gone to waste in orphanages. They confront him about it on the fifth day, and his answer is simple.  
“I quite like the idea of having a little brother or sister, one to talk to instead of those dull nannies you keep insisting on.” They seem to consider this, and they cannot detect his ulterior motives, for he has told them nothing but the truth. All that remains now is that Sherlock acts convincingly enough for them to believe he hasn’t had anything to do with this at all.  
That Saturday they set up three meetings in three different orphanages, the last one is The Street Irregulars Orphanage. The first two are dreadfully boring, and they leave quicker than necessary. The children are too ordinary to ever fit into the Holmes family, they’ve almost given up hope for the day. His parents for real, Mycroft pretending. As they arrive Mrs Langley leads the way into the playroom. Here they observe the children as they play different games with each other. There are 23 in total, including Sherlock, who is currently sat in a corner reading a book. The cover claims it to be Dracula, probably nicked from one of the offices for the adults.  
The three Holmeses regard the room with blank faces. Surveying the children sceptically as they read them trough their actions. His Fathers eyes finally landing on Sherlock where Mycroft had spotted him the moment they entered.  
“Reading Dracula, advanced. Not partaking any of the trivial games.” He remarks to his wife, who quickly find the boy in question.  
“Thirst for knowledge by the way he will minutely study the other children, assessing them.” She notes in turn, sounding the tiniest bit pleased. Mycroft thinks it’s too early to call it a success, but it is headed in the right direction.  
Father moves first, walking over to the boy and sits on a chair nearby. Sherlock looks up at him as the two other family members join him.  
“Hello. What’s your name?” Mr Holmes asks.  
“Sherlock Torley.” Sherlock answers as he puts the book down and reaches a hand out. The man smiles a tiny smile at the gesture and reaches for the boys hand.  
“I’m Martin Holmes and this is my wife, Celia Holmes.” He says, letting go of Sherlocks hand and gesturing to the woman at his side.  
“And this is our son Mycroft.” He finishes, patting Mycroft on the shoulder. Sherlock gives them both a nod in greeting.  
“Why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself Sherlock?” Mrs Holmes asks. Mycroft suddenly realises he has no idea what Sherlock will answer, he’d focused too much on the technical. He’s still young, still makes a few mistakes. Sherlock is quiet for a few moments, glances at them as if he’s unsure whether to tell them or not, and then beings speaking.  
“I prefer observing rather than playing, playing is dull I don’t see the point. But from observing I can tell that Susie over there is still hoping for her parents to return for her, Billy misses his dog, and Andy has eaten yet another worm.” He grimaces.  
“Now that’s dull, I know all of these people. You however.” He turns his grey eyes onto them intently, their piercing clarity pinning them all in place.  
“You’re obviously looking to adopt a second child, that’s why you’re here, but you’re both fully capable of doing that on your own so why come here? You obviously don’t want a toddler, too much work? Yes just that. Judging by the time of day and your clothes you’ve been to two other orphanages already, no luck, must be looking for something specific then.” He stops, glances at the three of them as if unsure, his eyes almost linger on Mycroft but he doesn’t let them, can’t give himself away now. Mycrofts warning words still linger clearly in his mind, and he thinks to himself that if this goes wrong everything else will fall apart around him. He waits.  
Martin smiles knowingly at Celia, and Mycroft feels triumphant.  
“Very good, Sherlock.” At this however, Sherlock looks puzzled. He cocks his head and blinks at they trio, like he wasn’t suspecting that answer at all. Mr Holmes smiles and continues.  
“You see the special something we were looking for was just that, intelligence. Our family have a high average IQ, so we need someone with the ability to keep up, and I think we just found them.” His smile is gentle, pleased.  
“Most people get mad when I do that.”  
“Yes of course, most people don’t see the simplicity in the world like that, so they reject it.” Mrs Holmes answers, and Sherlock feels a kinship with them instantly, just like Mycroft. He reaches out with his telekinetic powers and makes impressions of them in his own mind. Mycrofts is familiar already, safety and logic spinning around him. Celia feels like protection and fondness, warm and soft beneath a distance of stone that is her work, time spent away from the family and on business. Martin feels like his wife, warm beneath a layer of stone that reeks of importance, fondness reaching out for him and a feeling of mentoring duty that is echoed in Mycroft as well. Sherlock knows they will both be absent, but they will be fond, and they will care for him as Mycroft has. He smiles at them, a muted smile but they see it for what it is, for he is similar to them even though he is not of their own flesh and blood (not of their own species).  
They talk for an hour, Sherlock excitedly recounting observations and experiments he has conducted in his short time here (both in the orphanage and on earth, but they don’t know the latter). The three of them talking about how life in the Holmes family will be. By the end of the hour it is decided that they will adopt him, and as Mr and Mrs Holmes leave the two boys to get a bit more familiar and the discuss paperwork with Mrs Langley, Mycroft smiles at Sherlock in approval. Sherlock in turn smiles with happiness. He will be safe.  
The week goes like this.  
The Saturday they came and found him, they discussed paperwork with Mrs Langley, who gave them forms to fill.  
Sunday they returned the forms when visiting Sherlock again for tea.  
By Monday Mrs Langley had sent the form trough the process.  
On Tuesday and inspector came to the Holmes household to see that it was fit to bring a child there. Of course it was.  
Nothing happens on Wednesday, but Mrs Langley finds the lack of a medical record for Sherlock concerning and plans a visit for a check up on Friday.  
Come Thursday the processing of the forms are cleared and she has the adoption papers ready to be signed.  
Sherlock goes to the hospital that Friday, and has his check up, they find nothing wrong with him. Sherlock is terrified the entire time and only breathes normally once they are half way back to the orphanage.  
That Saturday papers are signed, goodbyes are said, and Sherlock Holmes returns home. They have a British citizenship set up for him already, and have enrolled him in the school close by. He will start attendance on Wednesday, getting to spend a few days at home to get used to it. Sherlock agrees to go to school only because of two things. Mycroft tells him it is the best course of action to stay undetected, and he is curious about the human culture. He strives to fit in and not be taken away. The fear is already deep rooted in him to an irreversible degree. Mycroft gets the few days off of school as well, helping Sherlock settle in as their parents notice the bond the boys quickly developed. In those days he helps Sherlock with understanding humans, human mannerisms, everything he needs to know to be seen as passingly normal in school. Of course Mycroft attends the same one, and can help him if he really needs it, but they would both prefer that to be a ‘last resort’ option. Sherlock is clever, terribly clever, and he picks everything up in the blink of an eye. Adapting is his strongest feature; it will help him stay alive.  
The first day of school passes with relative ease. He’s an outsider, rejects most of the other students, tolerates the rest, and comes home pleased with the days effort. School is boring but necessary, and this is the opinion he sticks to throughout his entire academic life.

***

“You promised.”  
It’s not said with accusation, no dramatic air of betrayal, instead it’s a quiet comment from the doorway. Mycroft turns from where he’s packing his suitcase and looks at Sherlock. Their faces are matching masks of calm passiveness, picked up from their parents. Mycroft sighs; he looks older in that moment. His brother always makes him feel the oldest. No amount of work or intelligence makes him feel this old, this wary.  
Sherlock is also older. For the first year he almost didn’t change at all, but then he realized that people grew. They got taller and their faces lost some of the chubbiness of childhood. So he’d grown along with them, grown taller, made his face sharper bit by bit, his limbs were lanky and he was well on his way to becoming an awkward teenager made up of all elbows and knees.  
“I know, but I have to go. I only get to choose where to.”  
Sherlocks expression is stoic, he turns and walks down the hallway to his own bedroom. Mycroft sighs again and gets back to packing. He loves Sherlock, has loved him in the six years that have passed, but he can be difficult. Tomorrow morning he will be leaving for college. It’s far away and he will be living on school grounds, a boarding school. When he was younger he couldn’t wait, he’s still looking forward to it, but with the addition of Sherlock to the family he regrets leaving him behind. They have grown dependant of each other, and if they were normal a lot of tears and hugging would be involved he’s sure, but they’re not. Instead they have this, the resigned understanding that their bonds have to be severed. He knows they will never be the same.  
Sherlock knows he’s being irrational, but he can’t help it. Mycroft said he would have to go, but he had always hoped it wouldn’t come so soon, and Mycroft promised he would always watch out for him while he needed it. He’s 13 now, and he shouldn’t feel like he needs him, but he does. He’s still scared. Scared of men in suits and scientists, remote locations where they would slowly take him apart until there was nothing left of him. This world was not meant for him, but there he was anyway.  
Mycroft leaves the next morning, and life goes on, but they drift apart. Bu the time he comes back their relationship will never return to the same. Sherlock starts resenting his brothers interference, he needs to be able to get on without him, and so the rivalry starts blossoming. Deep down they are still themselves from those first days, so dependent, a lost little boy and a soon to be older brother who felt so much like he needed to shield him from the world, and teach him.


	2. Now I'm ready to find Home again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And if Molly returns please tell her thank you and she should go for the second option lipstick wise.” And then he’s gone.  
> John glances doubtfully at Mike.  
> “I take it you got along then?” he says with barely contained laughter.  
> “Something like that, yeah.” John says with an uncertain smile of his own. A door on the opposite side of the room opens and a small woman with brown hair in a lab coat enters holding two mugs.  
> “Sherlock I got the… Oh, he left didn’t he?”  
> “Uhm, yes. Yes he did. You’re Molly?” the woman nods in answer to Johns question.  
> “Well he said to tell you thank you, and that the second option was the best one.”  
> “Option? Oh right! With the lipstick.” She says as she puts the mugs down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it finally is, A Study in Pink re-write  
> Took longer than I wanted t too, but I got a bit stuck  
> A few important changes in the character of Sherlock is highlighted here, but I've tried not to change him too much, also including how he met Lestrade and started working with NSY!  
> Hope you enjoy it!!  
> Unbeta'ed

“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”  
“Who was the first one?”

Sherlock stands in the lab at St. Barts, his recent conversation with Stamford lingers in his mind. A flatmate. Of all things he’ll have to find a flatmate if he is to continue refusing the financial help from his brother. During his life he had taken an immense interest in human biology, then chemistry because that was how everything worked when you got down to it. Eventually he knew everything that could kill a person, in any way. He knew how to read people, could almost tell what they were thinking (he doesn’t read minds these days for two reasons, he wouldn’t be able to explain how he knew and then they would know, and it’s cheating and makes things too easy), he thrives on puzzles. He needs to keep his mind occupied because otherwise it’ll whirr away without any destination and it will rot inside his very skull. At the age of 18 he’d moved into central London, and he fell in love with the city instantly. The constant life and buzz, so many people and streets and secrets. He knew the entire town inside out within the first year, and he has never wanted to live anywhere else since.  
It was during one of his survey walks he happened upon his first crime scene. Walking was his daily routine, just walking, looking at people and deducing their life by glancing at them. Trying to find something interesting. By then he was 20 and it was a miracle he hadn’t wandered into one before that point. He approached the scene and stood at the edge of the tape along with a few other spectators. He can see the body; gunshot wound to the head and dried blood pooled on the ground. How trivial, he thinks, and is about to walk off when he sees something. In passing it might have been ignored, it’s well done but he can see the slight anomaly. The bullet wound is older than the blood, by roughly two hours. Killed somewhere else, brought here, but why? Why go trough the trouble of acquiring the blood to stage the dump scene to look like the murder scene? Unless the actual place he was murdered would be too telling, couldn’t have them find a dumped body and go looking for where he could have been shot, no they need to clean up the mess, and it’ll take time. They can trace where the man has been, they’ll probably have two days instead of a few hours, that’s what they’re counting on. There must be fibres from a carpet on his shoes, that would take the most time to clean, ah yes right there. His clothes say business but the sate of the body says underground. Black market? No, business scam. A deal gone wrong, or tying up loose ends? Latter most probable. The dress states a lower in rank, so he would have been working for someone, but the dress also says he doesn’t have to change to be seen with this boss, so he works for him in the public eye as well. Wonder if they have an ID. Not married, long time girlfriend. With a cat. He’s allergic to cats.  
“Alright everybody, move along, we need to process this crime scene in private.” A man says, he looks to be about 30, dark hair starting to go silver at the temples. His badge states him to be Sergeant G. Lestrade. He ushers he small crowd to move away, go back to their daily lives. Most are hesitant.  
“Unless you’re a witness or have valuable information I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. Please do so in a calm and civilised manner.” The last bit is directed at a couple of grumbling people. Sherlock decides the information he currently has is valuable, seeing as the idiots scrambling around haven’t caught on to the fact that this isn’t the actual murder scene. If they tested the blood it probably wouldn’t even match. Most of the people have left or have turned to go now, but he stands as close to the tape as he can get. “Sir, I’m going to have to ask you a last time to leave before I have to escort you away.” Lestrade is standing in font of him now, and Sherlock fixes his gaze on him. It takes him a second to remember to speak.  
“He was killed in his work place by his boss or co-worker two hours before he was dumped here.” Is all he says, before turning and walking away as it had been requested of him. The man he leaves in his wake stands there flabbergasted for a few seconds before ducking beneath the tape and jogging to catch up.  
“Hey! Wait!” Sherlock stops as Lestrade slows to a halt beside him. He looks to Lestrade, they’re roughly the same height at this point, and his entire face portrays the statement of ‘I won’t even waste air to ask what it is you want from me’. Lestrade glances away before fixing Sherlock with a slight glare.  
“You can’t drop information like that out of nowhere and then just take off.”  
“You said those with valuable information could stay, then you ordered me to leave, I did nothing out of line.” Lestrade almost wants to smack the superiority out of his expression, but he can’t exactly assault a civilian. In this very moment he regrets becoming part of the police force for the first of many times to come regarding Sherlock Holmes.  
“Yes well, I’ll need to take your statement, write your contact information and the information you have for us down and the like, okay?” The corner of Sherlocks mouth twitches in annoyance, but he turns on his heel and stalks back to the crime scene. Lestrade sighs and follows.  
“So, what was it you told me before?” He’s got a pen and his notebook out, ready to write down everything he can get from the arrogant bloke in the expensive coat. Said man is currently looking as if he has been asked to repeat something not for the second time, but the 500th time.  
“He was killed in his work place by his boss or co-worker two hours before he was dumped here.” Sherlock repeats. Lestrade raises an eyebrow as he take the words in completely.  
“And how do you know that?”  
“It’s quite obvious isn’t it?”  
“No it’s not, it’s suspicious. Suspicious enough for me to take you into custody if I don’t get a good answer.” If Sherlock hadn’t looked so posh and put together, Lestrade might have suspected him of turning tail and fleeing right there, like any suspicious person would when faced down by a member of the police force. Sherlock however, simply snorts.  
“The blood around the victim is clearly fresher than the wound, I suspect you’ll find it’s not even his, so this is not the murder scene, this is the dump scene made to look like the murder scene and frankly that should have been obvious from the start if your forensic team hadn’t been too focused on finding signs of struggle and traces form the killer, which they won’t find anyways. The actual murder scene must be a place they can’t leave a body, probably a place they need to clean, looking at the carpet fibres on his shoes it’s quite obvious it was indoors on a cheap carpet, so obviously they have to clean it to cover the evidence. His attire says business man, and the fact that he is still dressed as this when meeting with who he undoubtedly works for in the business scam he’s running says that he works for the same person in the eye of the public, so if you find out where this man works and who he works for you will find the murder scene, the murderer, and probably the murder weapon seeing as they’re counting on some extra time from letting you find the murder scene rather than a dump scene. Act quickly and you might yet catch them in the act. Is that all?” Sherlock looks smug, Lestrade gapes.  
“I’ll need your contact information.” He says weakly. Sherlock rattles them off and Lestrade writes, he ends it with,  
“I have a website, scienceofdeduction.co.uk, any question you may have can be answered there.” And Lestrade lets him go. He doesn’t know how he’ll explain this to his superiors, but he can always call Sherlock back in.  
As it turns out he has to do just that a few days later when they have the people responsible under arrest and Sherlocks entire story checks out. Lestrade visits Sherlocks website first and read up on his methods. They question him and then let him go, but Lestrade stops him on his way out.  
“We could really do with someone with your skills working here, what do you say?”  
“No.” The disgust is clear in his voice.  
“But you’d be helping people!”  
“I loathe repeating myself and I’ve already done that once for you, don’t make me do so again.”  
“Isn’t there any way you could be persuaded into joining?” And this gets Sherlock thinking, working it out had been such a great puzzle, there were bound to be more. Murders, while not completely common, were very much not unheard of in this day and age. He thinks about it, becoming a police officer.  
Too boring when not working a case, patroling and such, no. Detectives work nothing but cases, but working in this place at all times would be dreadful. So much to endure. Part-time? No, tedious. Consultant. I can be called in when they’ve got truly puzzling cases. Brilliant.  
“I am willing to become a consulting detective. Text me when something interesting comes up.” He’s about to leave when Lestrade stops him again.  
“Consulting detective?”  
“Yes, for gods sake start listening will you. When you need my help text me, and I’ll solve the case for you. If the case is too boring I won’t be bothered. Now, goodbye.” The last word is cutting and Lestrade is silent as he lets Sherlock leave the station.  
And then it escalated from there, and soon Sherlock became a regular face at the Yard. To mostly everyone’s annoyance, but largely everyone’s help.

***

“The place has changed a lot since our time” Mike says with a laugh as he enters the lab at St Barts with John on his heels. He glances around the empty lab, a microscope is set out on one of the tables, but there isn’t a single person in sight. Mike sighs.  
“So, who’d you want me to meet?” John asks as his eyes scan the room.  
“This fellow named Sherlock, he was here earlier today, but he must’ve left.”  
“Ah, shame.” John says, but he doesn’t sound too disappointed. At this point a figure suddenly appears at the end of the long table, rising from the floor a tall man with dark curls and pale eyes exclaims,  
“Ah! Stamford, so you’ve chosen to suggest your old friend form uni as a flatmate then?”  
“Jesus, Sherlock! You nearly gave me a heart attack!”  
“Oh don’t be so melodramatic, heart attacks are still yet out of reach for you, and should be for a good more 7 years.” Mike looks slightly irritated as the man, Sherlock, approaches them.  
“Sherlock Holmes, this is John Watson. Old friend of mine.” He gestures to John who has been staring bewildered on the scene unfolding between them.  
“Yes yes, I already know your acquaintance with the man.” He turns his sharp eyes onto John, who simply nods in greeting.  
“Hmm, army doctor recently invalided home from Iraq or Afghanistan. Cane says injury to the leg, but it’s actually psychosomatic, so you’ve got a therapist as well. Who agrees with me. Shot trough the left shoulder, now living in London on an army pension, hardly enough, so looking for a flatmate and here Mike is introducing you to me, who incidentally am also looking for a flatmate.” Sherlock shifts his gaze from John to Mike.  
“Playing matchmaker again are we?” Mike simply smiles in return. He looks to John again, who is still somewhat dumbfounded by the man having correctly relayed his recent life story upon his first meeting with said man. He stays silent. A shrill ringing suddenly makes itself known from the hallway and Mike realises it’s his phone.  
“Be right back.” He says as he heads out to answer the call. The ringing seemingly snaps John out of the daze he’s been in, and he finally says something to Sherlock.  
“That was…astounding. Really, quite extraordinary.” John smiles almost disbelievingly.  
“Mike hasn’t told you anything about me has he?”  
“No, not at all.”  
“How’d you know?”  
“I simply observed and drew conclusions. Your stance says military, as does your haircut, but Stamford said ‘our time’ upon entering, which means you studied at Barts together, hence why I also know how you know him. So army doctor then. Sun bleached hair and tan lines at the neck and wrists suggest you’ve been abroad, but not on holiday or you wouldn’t have said tan lines. That would suggest Afghanistan or Iraq. You seem to only think of your limp while you’re walking, but when standing it doesn’t seem to bother you, you didn’t ask for a chair or anything so it’s not a very conscious thing, psychosomatic limp. No the real wound that sent you home was your left shoulder, it’s stiff, you’re not yet used to the scar tissue no doubt left from the wound. An invalided soldier home in London, London is expensive. You live on your army pension for the moment, no real work for a surgeon with a tremor in his dominant hand. Looking for a flat mate, I mentioned I was looking for a flatmate earlier this very day, and here you are.” Sherlock stops to regard him as John takes in his own dissected life in the flowing baritone voice. He seems to be thinking quite hard, but there is a small smile playing on his lips, and this confuses Sherlock as much as the earlier compliment did. He takes the silent few seconds to allow his mind to reach out and search the intentions of this John Watson, make an imprint of him as he does with most people he can sense might have a regular part in his life. It’s tentative at first, his mind is vulnerable when he opens it like this, and he doesn’t know what he might meet. The first thing he feels is warmth, a mingling of comforting and too much, like jumpers and an unforgiving sun. The warmth has a purpose, it’s protective, he’s protective of both himself and those close to him, loyal, but not to a fault. Sherlock can win this mans trust, and when he does he will have his loyalty as well. Delving deeper he finds anger, so much anger, but mostly dormant. If provoked this man is dangerous, but he is so very moral, he is only dangerous to those who have wronged him. He finds a thrum of something running trough his entire being, and it’s a bit too wild to get a proper impression from at first, but then he feels it as if a tidal wave strikes him. Adrenaline. More precisely a wish, a longing and need, for the feel of it. He misses the war, misses the action and the feeling of being so alive in the middle of chaos. Sherlock almost smiles. This man can be of help, he can be a companion. He’ll be a terrific flatmate. This is when Sherlock decides to reveal his line of work. This entire ordeal takes but two seconds, and then John opens his mouth to speak.  
“Afghanistan. Just to clarify, but yes, correct. All of it.” Sherlock smirks.  
“Very well. I play the violin a lot, especially when I’m thinking. Which in fact is always. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, I’m hoping that won’t bother you. My work hours are unpredictable as I am self employed, but also a consultant. Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” Mike enters the room again and Sherlock decides that he ought to make an exit now, keep some parts a bit mysterious. It’ll appeal to the part of John that seeks adventure. He reaches for his coat and starts getting ready.  
“Well now I really must go, if the brother owns a green ladder he’s the murderer and I’ve forgotten my riding crop in the mortuary.” He’s adjusting his scarf and headed out the door when John finally calls out.  
“Hold on, that’s it? I don’t even know your name!”  
“The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street, we’ll meet there at five pm sharp.” He heads out the door, it’s barely closed when he pokes his head back in.  
“And if Molly returns please tell her thank you and she should go for the second option lipstick wise.” And then he’s gone.  
John glances doubtfully at Mike.  
“I take it you got along then?” he says with barely contained laughter.  
“Something like that, yeah.” John says with an uncertain smile of his own. A door on the opposite side of the room opens and a small woman with brown hair in a lab coat enters holding two mugs.  
“Sherlock I got the… Oh, he left didn’t he?”  
“Uhm, yes. Yes he did. You’re Molly?” the woman nods in answer to Johns question.  
“Well he said to tell you thank you, and that the second option was the best one.”  
“Option? Oh right! With the lipstick.” She says as she puts the mugs down.

***

“Mr Holmes” He greets as they meet outside of the door to the flat. It’s black, with gold numbers proclaiming it to be 221.  
“Sherlock, please.” Is the answer as they shake hands. Sherlock steps up to the door and knocks on it three times. From behind the door he feels the familiar impression of motherly instincts and deep running patience approaching. When the door opens Mrs Hudson exclaims “Sherlock!” in a pleased voice, a smile on her lips. Sherlock in turn smiles and puts one arm around her as he bends to let her kiss his cheek.  
“Mrs Hudson, this is Doctor John Watson.” He says as he rights himself and steps inside. John extends his hand to the woman, who in turn leans in to give him a welcoming peck to the cheek as well.  
“Lovely to meet you Doctor Watson.”  
“John’s fine.” He says with a smile to the endearing lady. Sherlock has already made his way upstairs and John trails behind him a bit slow due to his cane, Mrs Hudson closes the door behind them as she follows the boys up the stairs to 221b.  
They establish that the rent is half reduced due to an owed favour, the flat is nice and could be homey if they cleaned it out, and then it appears to be that Sherlock already moved in and the clutter is his. And they will definitely be needing two bedrooms.  
“I’m your landlady dear, not your housekeeper.” Mrs Hudson says as she leaves them in peace to discuss the details between themselves. Blue lights from the window interrupt them and Sherlock walks over smiling. A man with silver hair bursts trough the door, a quick exchange about something to do with suicides and notes, and he’s off again.  
“Four serial suicides and now a note, oh it’s Christmas!” Sherlock exclaims once the man has gone.

They get into the taxi that instantly pulls up when Sherlock raises his hand, and John thinks it must be the air about him, the way he radiates a sense of importance. They sit in in silence for a bit, Sherlock staring at his phone and John occasionally looking at him. Sherlock reaches out a bit and catches snippets, there are so many questions, tedious ones, but he decides they’re necessary to get out of the way. Anyway this is the grand reveal, his work is his pride.  
“Okay, you’ve got questions.” He finally says.  
“Yeah, where are we going?”  
“Crime scene. Next?”  
“Who are you? What do you do?” Because this has been bothering him, who gets police officers on his door asking them to come to a crime scene?  
“What do you think?” And it’s a challenge, a test.  
“ I’d say private detective-” He says slowly, carefully as though he could get it so wrong Sherlock might want to throw him out of the cab.  
“But?” He prompts, no irritation in sight.  
“- but the police don’t go to private detectives.” He concludes. He remembers what Sherlock had said in the lab at Barts. Consultant.  
“Consulting?”  
“Indeed, I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.” Pride is evident in his voice, his work is his life, and it is individually his own.  
“What does that mean?”  
“It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.”  
“But the police don’t consult amateurs.” Sherlock glares and John raises an eyebrow in retaliation. Sherlock holds Johns own cell phone out for him as answer. John pats his pocket and glares at Sherlock who smirks in answer. He rattles off about his relationship with his alcoholic brother (sister John thinks so loudly Sherlock picks it up because he hasn’t got the walls up properly again, but he can’t change his mind now, can’t find the obvious reason for sister rather than brother, and keeps his mouth shut and decides to ask later), before he hands it back.  
“There you go, you see – you were right.” He says finally.  
“I was right? Right about what?”  
“The police don’t consult amateurs.” Sherlock smirks before glancing out the window, awaiting judgment. There is a slight tenseness to his shoulders.  
John laughs, and if Sherlock wasn’t, well, Sherlock, he would have done a double take.  
“Well, fair enough. Should have realized from earlier today. It’s still amazing.” There is no anger in his voice as he expected. Aren’t siblings with taboo problems a sore subject?  
“Hmm, that’s not what most people say.”  
“Oh? What do they say?”  
“Piss off!” They share a smile, and Sherlock can tell this could go so very right.

“PINK!” He yells and he’s gone. Leaving John clad in a blue overall in his wake, along with a confused Lestrade and a few fuming members of the police force. Sally stops him on his way out, says he shouldn’t be friends with the Freak. Apparently he doesn’t do friends, and John feels like saying neither do I, because it’s true, but he doesn’t. He heads towards the main road to find a cab.  
Sherlock is halfway towards the first alley when he feels the familiar protection and arrogance that has become more pungent over the years. He knows Mycroft will want to talk to John. He hates it when his older brother tries to interfere with his life now that he’s older. He doesn’t need him like he did before, he can manage on his own. He turns sharper and follows the imprint of warmth until he finds John. Said man is headed towards the main road, no doubt looking for a cab after Sherlock supposedly abandoned him.  
“John!” he calls, and John turns abruptly, he has an expression of confusion but he is relieved to find Sherlock hasn’t abandoned him after all. As Sherlock rushes up to him and stops him from coming too close to the main road, too close to were Mycrofts net is laid out.  
“Her suitcase will have been dumped in an alley around this area, we need to find it.” He says, and then he’s off towards the first plausible location, John walks briskly to catch up with him. They spend half the evening looking for the case, it goes a bit slower than Sherlock would have liked due to Johns limp, but it only strengthens his resolution to get rid of it. John will be much more useful if he can function on full speed. They find it eventually, and head back to 221b.  
Sherlock examines the case thoroughly, running glove clad fingers along the seams and edges, holds it to the light and turns it this way and that. He looks at the tag, a feminine scrawl stating name, address, email, and phone number. John sits in the chair opposite him, watching, he hasn’t said anything about bringing it to the police yet. Eventually he opens the case and rifles trough the contents, the pockets, everything. He frowns minutely before muttering a single word to himself.  
“What?”  
“There’s no phone, no PDA, no nothing. So where is it?”  
“You’re sure the police don’t have it? Or maybe she doesn’t own one?”  
“Of course they don’t, it wasn’t on her person not in their possession. And she must have one, journalist and serial adulterer, she must have something to keep her schedule.”  
“So where is it then?”  
Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of his face and stares blankly for a few seconds, thinking. It could have been lost but that was unlikely, she was smarter than that. Must have left it with her killer. Most likely option. Time to play.  
“I want you to text the number on the tag.”  
After a frankly awkward conversation over the meal, and establishing their civil statuses (and Sherlock feels the wave of warm affection that is starting to form for him in Johns own mind, he doesn’t want to examine how he feels about it), they dash after a cab.  
“Welcome to London.” And they dissolve back into giggling.  
“That was ridiculous.”  
“Says the man who invaded Afghanistan.” And they’re laughing again, only stopping once there is a knock at the door. Sherlock nods towards it and John goes to open it.  
Once he holds his cane again, and feels the blissful absence of a phantom pain, he turns to Sherlock with an amazed look. Distantly, Sherlock thinks he might never get tired of that look.  
He’s been to distracted to notice the mingling of familiar impressions above them, that is until he heart the commotion. His head turns sharply to the door on top of the stairs, and Johns gaze follows. He takes off and bounds up the stairs, John following him, in the back of his mind he notes the lack of the limp still and he is pleased.  
“What the hell is going on here?” he questions the room at large.  
“Fingers.” Lestrade answers from his seat in the chair. Sherlock pins him with a sharp look, and John looks between the two.  
“You forgot the paperwork for the fingers last week, technically you stole them, so we’ve got full permission to be here thanks to Molly.”  
John remembers the name, the small brunette at Barts, is they all friends?  
Sherlock growls something underneath his breath. Sally pipes up from the kitchen then.  
“Are these human eyeballs?”  
“It’s an experiment, put them back.”  
“They were in the microwave.”  
“Good, then you know where to put them.”  
It all devolves into accusations until Sherlock tells them all to shut up, not to think or speak or move. And it seems dramatic to all of them but he is too overloaded with impressions and he needs his walls back up and he needs some peace and quiet to think. And then there’s Rachel, and a cab, and he’s too caught up in the mystery of it all, but in the back of his head he feels Johns impression. The warmth, the worry, and the fact that it’s following him, getting stronger as the cab finally stops.  
Both of the pills smell harmless, nothing toxic for humans at all. Then the man sets out the glass of water and he tries not to be too obvious as he eyes it. They talk, he lifts the pill, it wont hurt him, he knows. The cab driver pushes the glass of water closer to him, and his suspicions are confirmed when he watches the set of his shoulders. The slight crease in his brow.  
The cabbie ends up dead, in the end, but not before choking out the name Moriarty.  
Outside he has a blanket, and he says he doesn’t know who saved him, but he knows. And he knows he has won the loyalty of one Doctor John Watson. It feels like victory.  
Mycroft is as smarmy as ever, the git, but his visit is short. Sherlock knows he will get a hold of John sometime, somehow. Doesn’t make it any less satisfying that he’s kept him off for now.  
“Dinner?”  
“Starving.”  
And they’re smiling at each other again, for what has to be the 10th time today. In their respective heads they think that yes, this could work out brilliantly.


End file.
